


Time and Mercy

by vulpeculavolans



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mention of major character death, Two Shot, but no actual mcd dont worry!!!, couldnt do that i'd make myself cry too hard, i think that tag applies here???, this'll update probably later this week with the Thrilling Conclusion so look forward to that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-05-27 03:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15015431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulpeculavolans/pseuds/vulpeculavolans
Summary: If this is dying, it's not so bad, he thinks. Only thing it's missing is an angel.





	1. Time

Peter Nureyev is fairly sure he's dying. 

The feeling doesn't surprise him, not really. He’s been expecting this for a while, now. Been wondering what was taking so long. Mags had always told him he’d die with his boots on.  _ Right again, old man, _ Peter thinks distantly, noting the uncomfortable weight of them as he lays on his back, staring up at the endless Martian sky. He looks down at the hole in his abdomen, seeping blood steadily, and feels his heartbeat quicken with fear. He makes a guttural sound in the back of his throat and knocks his head back to the ground, connecting with a quiet  _ thunk _ . If he has a choice - and in this case, he does - he won’t die in fear. He’s had enough already.

He notices, faintly, like remembering a dream, that he can’t feel his legs. The blood loss makes his head spin, and he giggles.  _ If this is dying, it’s not so bad _ , he thinks. _ Only thing it’s missing is an angel. _

“Nureyev!”

Peter’s head spins. He could’ve sworn he heard something.

“ _ Peter! _ ”

He manages an attempt at speech this time, a pleasant (if slurred) hum.

The next thing he knows, an angel’s shown up, and of course it looks like Juno. He kneels, one hand coming to rest under Peter’s head, the other pressing hard into the wound in Peter’s guts. Peter laughs, bitter but unsurprised. “It’s you,” he says, his eyes half-lidded. Of course it is. What was that story he’d heard from the lady on Titan? Something something guardian angels?... He can’t remember now, his head’s so fuzzy, but this makes sense. This much, at least, makes sense. The angel-Juno laughs, tears spilling over onto his cheeks. “Yeah, Nureyev, it’s me,” he says, and that voice sounds so like his Peter would cry if he had the presence of mind for it.

Peter stares up into the angel-Juno’s face, sees the tears making tracks down it, and, well, that won’t do. He frowns, his brow creasing, and raises his right hand. He can feel Juno’s week-old stubble, the grime and dirt of Hyperion City still clinging to his cheeks, and he smiles as his thumb traces out the shape of his lower eyelid. He can’t help but notice the red streaks his fingers leave behind, but the angel doesn’t seem to care. He’s got his inner right wrist held to his face, talking urgently into his comms. Peter tries to listen, but all he manages to pick out is “Rita” and “Now!” before his head is swimming so much he feels like he might pass out. The angel turns back to him. Peter’s hand shifts with the movement, his palm resting on Juno’s jaw. He’s saying something, but Peter can’t quite figure out what. He doesn’t mind, not really. He’s just glad he’s here, at the end of the world, letting Peter bleed out all over his nice coat.

Peter’s vision starts to blur. He feels like he’s floating, the sensation oddly nauseating. He tries to ignore it, grounds himself with his left hand twisted in this figment’s jacket.

“Would you like to hear a secret, detective?” Peter slurs, and he knows it’s a far cry from the voice Juno fell in love with, but it’s the best he can offer. He won’t mind, anyway. Juno - the  _ real _ Juno - will never hear it. 

He sniffs. “What’s that, huh?” 

He holds Peter’s hand, presses it against his cheek, warm under Peter’s cold, numb fingers. They catch on Juno’s lips, and Peter smiles softly. 

“You’re the greatest thing that's ever happened to me.” 

The angel’s face crumples, fresh tears racing down his cheeks, and Peter only barely hears his next sentence. “Stole my line, Nureyev. Ain’t that just like you?”

Peter’s decides he’s had enough, then. He welcomes the ache in his bones, like sinking into a warm bath, and leans into the cheap fabric of Juno’s coat, and drifts off, comforting darkness enveloping him.

When he wakes up, he feels worse than he did when he was dying.

The first sound to escape his mouth is a deep groan, and he winces when the vibrations in his chest react with the gut-shot that is, evidently, still healing. He flops his head back against the - pillow? - he’s tucked up against, letting out a frustrated “ _ guh _ ” as he goes. On the other side of the room, the window is open, the sounds of passing cars whizzing by every few seconds. He can see the light of the street lamps flowing in, illuminating his surroundings. 

He lifts his head, takes a look around. He’s certainly in someone’s bed; the soft sheets and carpet tell him it isn’t a hospital, so some poor soul must’ve taken him in.  There are paintings on the walls, lit up in a orange haze, and Peter can’t quite make sense of them. Maybe it’s the post-death haze, but he’s certain that’s a painting of a cube with a nose. Why give the cube a nose? What could that possibly represent? It seems utterly ridiculous. Peter huffs a quiet laugh, then stops himself. Maybe he’s in purgatory.  _ Is that what they do here? _ He wonders.  _ Just leave you lying in a stranger’s bed with only terrible art to look at for the rest of eternity? _

The quandary makes his head spin, so he closes his eyes. He keeps them that way for a fraction of a second, and the next thing he knows, it’s late afternoon. The blinds are open, now, and Peter sees something he missed the night before; an armchair, old but comfortable-looking, faced toward his bed at the far end of the room. On the table next to it, Peter sees a manilla envelope, spilling papers. That grabs his attention. He tries to read the text from his place on the bed, but the lack of glasses leaves his vision fuzzy. He sits up, gritting his teeth at the burning in his abdomen, and crawls to the end of the bed with some difficulty. He’s got one hand on the footrest, the other reaching out to grab the envelope, when the door swings open.

Peter’s eyebrows shoot a half-mile upwards. This can’t be right.

“Well, Mistah Glass, it certainly looks like you’re feeling better!”

There, in the doorway, stands… Juno’s secretary? He wracks his brain. Ronnie? Roberta? Rachel?

“Rita!”

Rita.

It dawns on Peter, moments before Juno arrives in the doorway, that Juno’s secretary means Juno can’t be far behind. In these moments, he feels a kind of anxiety that one can only feel when about to be faced again by the very complicated love of one’s life… while wearing borrowed pyjamas. He winces.

“Rita, did you get the floor plans for the Hephaestus building yet? I’m gonna need them by -”

Juno’s sentence stops in its tracks when he sees Peter. Peter realises he’s still in the awkward, stretched-out position he’d been in before Juno appeared, and elegantly sets himself back on his knees. He feels a wave of nausea at the pain that sears across his stomach as he stretches his wound, but holds a straight face regardless.

“Detective,” he says. “It’s been a while.”


	2. Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S FINALLY DONE!
> 
> Within the next week, I said. Thrilling conclusion, I said. Well, here it is, anyway. Featuring: new and improved Juno, lovesick banter, and long run-on sentences about how goddamn gorgeous Peter Nureyev is.

So, he panicked. Sue him.

In all the time he'd had since he left Nureyev in that hotel room all those months ago, he'd imagined scenario after scenario of their first meeting. Eyes catching across a crowded room, a ball they both attended for a case and a mark. In the middle of a shootout, Juno catching sight of a flash of a knife or a tuft of perfectly-styled hair. Hell, even just running into each other on the street - Juno turning a corner and there he is, in all his glory.

This? This hadn't even cropped up on his radar.

He remembers the feeling of Nureyev in his arms, warm blood soaking his jacket, and he feels sick. 

_ You wouldn't want your thief to suffer because you weren't trying hard enough, would you, Juno? _

The memory hits him like a train out of nowhere and he makes some incomprehensible sound from the back of his throat, rests his head in his hands.

_ Take a rest, Juno. I'll be fine. _

_ Fine. _ Yeah, if you call bleeding out in the middle of the Martian desert "fine", Peter Nureyev's doing great. Hell, even better - he's lying in bed in Juno's shitty apartment, recovering from a gunshot wound that should have killed him. The only reason he isn't dead is because Rita knows how to heal from personal experience. He's put that woman through too much, he knows, but in the moment he can’t help but be the most selfish kind of grateful he ever has.

Juno Steel is a lot of things, but a healer isn't one of them.

He can still see him lying on his desk, near-unconscious and completely incomprehensible except for the fact he was in pain, Juno was causing him  _ pain, _ as he felt around for the bullet in his gut and Rita squeaked instructions. His office stunk of blood and disinfectant for days afterwards, a sickening play-act of the cologne that had haunted him for weeks. 

He runs a hand through his hair and sits up straight, holding onto the bar with white knuckles. He should get home. He owes him an explanation, probably, but he also owes him care. He knows this. He knows.

He tries to stand up twice before he can actually will his body to move, and then it passes in something of a blur. He walks from the bar to the apartment and finds himself standing outside what has become Nureyev’s door, hand raised, waiting for… something. Some divine intervention, a soft call from inside or for the door to open for him. Nothing happens. He shifts from foot to foot, hand still raised. Takes a deep breath. Knocks.

“Come in,” Nureyev says, softly, and Juno feels his traitorous heart ache. He sounds pained. Understandably.

He pushes the door open and steps into the room, forces himself to close the door behind him gently. His throat feels tight.

Nureyev is propped up against the pillows Juno had brought in from his apartment, hair limp and skin pale and eyes dark and he’s every inch the man that stole Juno’s heart right from him chest so many months ago.

“Hey, Nureyev,” he says, his voice rough, and Peter smiles.

“It’s nice to see you, Juno,” he says, and he’s so goddamn earnest that Juno can’t take it. He breaks eye contact, burning a hole in the floor instead. There’s a silence between them that lasts for a moment that feels like a year and eventually, he can’t take it anymore.

“Nureyev, listen, I’m --”

“Juno, I’m so --”

“Sorry,” they blurt at the same time, and Juno’s gaze snaps back to Nureyev’s. “What?” he says, eloquently.

“Ah…” Nureyev shifts uncomfortably. Juno’s at his side in an instant, all awkwardness forgotten as he helps him sit up straighter. “Thank you,” he says, voice hoarse from disuse. “Juno, I’m… sorry. About the aftermath. I gave you an ultimatum, and it was unfair of me, especially considering --” he cuts himself off, laughs humourlessly at himself. “Considering what you’d just been through. It was irresponsible at best.”

Juno stares at him.  _ What? _ “Nureyev, I --”

“No, don’t. You don’t have to forgive me, Juno, I --”

“Goddamnit, Nureyev, would you let me talk?” Juno interrupts.

“Sorry,” Peter says, but he can’t seem to stop the dopey grin that slides onto his face. Must be high off the painkillers, Juno decides.

“Listen, I…” he groans. “I’m not good at this. But, we both did things we shouldn’t have. We both fucked up. No sense in -- beating ourselves up over it.”

Nureyev stared at him, and those eyes pull him in again like they have their own gravity. He’s so beautiful.

“You’ve changed,” Peter says, and that smile is still on his face, less dopey and more…  _ proud, _ whispers a little voice in the back of his head. If he lets himself believe it, no one has to know.

“Yeah,” Juno laughs. “I guess you could say that. Some shit’s gone down since I up and disappeared on you, Nureyev, you can say that much.”

“Tell me about it,” he says, settling back into his pillows, and Juno raises an eyebrow, a grin on his face.

“What, you want me to tell you a bedtime story?”

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Peter says, matter-of-fact, arms crossed primly.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

“Not if you’re the death of me first.”

So Juno tells him, and Peter listens.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from O Death by Jen Titus!
> 
> Catch me on Tumblr: @prettyjuno


End file.
